


Wishful Thinking

by Nicola Mody (Vilakins)



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Crack, Gen, Humour, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-30
Updated: 2005-10-30
Packaged: 2017-10-04 06:29:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vilakins/pseuds/Nicola%20Mody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blake upsets a genie and suffers the consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wishful Thinking

"Odd." Blake looked around. "The place is deserted."

"Yes. I noticed," said Avon.

Vila shivered as he closed the door he'd just unlocked. "Reminds me of that old story about that spaceship, the _Mary Sue_, where everyone disappeared, just like this." He stared at the table in the nearest corner. There were two half-eaten meals on it, the cutlery lying crookedly on the plates as if dropped.

"_Celeste_," Avon said automatically, too unnerved himself to insult Vila. He approached the door to the computer room with caution, pushed it open, and poked first his gun, then his head around it. "Well, at least it should be easy enough to extract the communication codes without being interrupted," he said, and disappeared.

Vila hesitantly reached out to touch a coffee mug. It was stone cold. He backed away. "Look, let's just get out of here."

"No. We'll get what we came for," said Blake, opening drawers at random.

Vila considered asking for teleport and decided it wouldn't be worth the disappointed disapproval. He turned away from the abandoned table and almost fell over an ornate teardrop-shaped glass bottle on the floor. "Ow!" He hopped, holding his foot. "That hurt!" Then he realised that the bottle should have suffered more damage than he had. Puzzled, he tried to move it aside. "That's funny. Why's this thing so heavy?"

"What d'you expect?" said a tiny, high-pitched voice from inside it. "There _is_ such a thing as conservation of mass, you know."

Vila's mouth dropped open. "Eh?"

"Well, where did you think it would go? I'm still all here." The voice sounded very irritated.

Vila wondered if _he_ was. He got down on hands and knees and peered through the bottle's translucent side. He could dimly see a small figure behind the green, purple, and blue swirls of the glass. "Are you a genie?"

"A simplistic term but no more than I'd expect from you."

Vila sighed. Some things never changed. He stood up in disgust and saw Blake staring at him.

"It's a genie!" Vila rapped the bottle. "Listen!" He frowned at the lack of response. "Well, go on, say something!"

"Vila." Blake came over and laid a hand on his shoulder. "I realise this place is a bit disturbing, but—"

"No, really! There's a genie in there!"

"Vila, that's just—" Blake spread his hands, "—superstition!"

"Well, that's what I thought till now. But if the old stories are right, we just have to rub it and we get three wishes."

Blake sighed, shaking his head. "You mean like this?" He leaned forward and wiped his hand over the rounded glass surface.

"Hey!" cried Vila resentfully. "_I_ wanted to—" He jumped back, his eyes wide.

The genie _oozed_ out of the narrow neck of the bottle, expanding like an inflating balloon to hang over them, huge arms folded across his broad, naked chest. His skin was bright green and his hair, pulled up into a topknot, was purple, but most strange of all, his billowing crimson pantaloons dwindled away to a mere faint wisp which spiralled into the bottle's neck.

"Where're your legs?" asked Vila.

"With the rest of me in there, where d'you think?"

Vila hesitantly passed his hand through one of the massive green forearms. "Hologram?"

The genie undulated out of his reach. "Projection. And don't _do_ that. It's not very polite."

"How come you can see me then?"

The genie rolled his eyes. "It's a psychic projection." He turned to Blake, who was still stunned at the sight. "Well? What's your wish, then?"

Blake got his voice back. "I thought I got three."

The genie sighed. "It's a _maximum_ of three, innit? I've still got one left, so that's what you get."

"The people on this base used the other two?"

"You're quick."

"What happened to them?"

The genie looked hopeful. "Is that your wish?"

"No." Blake folded his arms too. "Just curiosity."

"Hmph. Oh, all right. They all tried to tell the fellow who released me what to ask for and he got a bit annoyed and wished the lot of 'em would go to hell."

Vila went pale.

"Course, I didn't know where that was, so I looked in their minds. Volcanic planet with horned and tailed life-forms with garden implements? Sounded like Laconsi 5 to me so I sent 'em all there, not that's it's particularly agrarian but two out of three isn't bad." The genie pursed his lips. "Doubt they'll last that long though. Not in that atmosphere."

Vila looked around nervously. "So there's still one of them here?"

"No, he got a bit upset for some reason and said he wanted to go home to mummy." The genie raised his purple eyebrows. "Well? Decided what you want?"

Blake had. He'd considered asking for the fall of the Federation and a just government to replace it, and amnesty for all rebels, but that might be counted as three. One might cover it. He struck a stance. "I wish for galactic peace."

"Bloody hell," said the genie. "I might have known it. There's always one. D'you even _know_ how long that would take? I'd have to reprogram every living creature for a start—"

This time _Blake_ went white.

"—and that'd be a full-time job for an army of me till the entropy death of the universe, and on top of that you'd need enough food and wealth so people don't have to take what's not theirs—"

Vila reached out to steady himself on the table.

"—and frankly, the whole thing's impossible."

Blake and Vila both let out sighs of relief.

"Oh, yes, _now_ you realise. Never think, you lot, do you?" The genie was slowly decreasing, deflating, oozing back into the bottle. "Know what happens when one of us can't grant a wish? Exiled, that's what. Can't show your face again for the shame of it, but what do you care?" Only his head was left now. "Well, you'll find out when you take my place."

"What?"

"Part of the deal, innit? Stump one of us and it's your turn."

Blake was outraged. "You never said!"

"You never asked." The genie's head disappeared with a _pop_. "Not a very flattering shade, that brown," he said from beside Vila, almost making him jump out of his skin, "but I suppose it'll have to do."

Vila stared at him. "What're you doing in Blake's clothes? And where's he?"

"In mine." The genie plucked at a large sleeve. "Did someone tell him this was slimming?" He noticed the teleport bracelet and pulled it off with a sneer. "Bit clunky and obvious, isn't it?" He tossed it away.

"It's not jewellery, it's a teleport bracelet!" Vila said, snatching it out of the air.

"I know. Like I said, a bit unsubtle." The genie nodded at him, flicked his fingers, and disappeared.

"Blake!" Vila crouched down and peered into the bottle.

Avon emerged from the computer room, a datacube in his hand. "I've got the—" he stopped. "What _are_ you doing, Vila, and where is Blake?"

"In there."

Avon had a more flexible view than Blake of the possibilities the universe offered. He came over and crouched down beside Vila, but even he had to make an effort to conceal his surprise. "Well, now. I'm quite impressed. How did you manage that?"

"It wasn't me!" Vila said indignantly, and explained what had happened.

"Get me out!" Blake squeaked, hitting his tiny fists on the inside of the bottle.

Avon smiled wolfishly. "But you're much safer in there. For us, that is." He put his nose up to the glass. "Pink isn't really your colour, though I do see that the size of those trousers is a logical extension of your recent sartorial preferences."

"Avon!"

"Yes, you'll be quite manageable in there." Avon tried to pick the bottle up and looked startled.

"Conservation of mass," Vila said casually.

"Of course." Avon tried to recover his dignity. "I'm quite familiar with the theory of molecular reduction, Vila." He frowned at the bottle, wondering how to get it back to the _Liberator_.

Vila grinned and slipped Blake's teleport bracelet over the neck.

Avon lifted his own. "Three to teleport, Jenna."

* * *

  
"Where's Blake?" Jenna demanded.

Avon indicated the bottle at his feet.

"What!" Jenna ran out from behind the teleport controls and put her eye to the top. "Oh!" She straightened up and glared at Avon accusingly. "What did you do to him?"

"Absolutely nothing. I believe he did it to himself."

Jenna wavered between curiosity and pragmatism. The latter won. "How do we get him out?"

"I suggest that in the interests of a quiet and possibly longer life, we don't. A pity we couldn't bottle Vila as well, but he's doing his best himself."

"Well-preserved, that's what I'm aiming for," said Vila. "But I don't mind pickled."

"You can't just leave him there!" said Jenna, outraged.

"Watch me." Avon sauntered away.

Jenna turned on Vila. "All right Vila, what d'you know about this?"

"Well, there's only one way you can get him out. You rub the bottle and—"

_"Vila!"_ Avon turned on his heel and strode back.

"—ask for three wishes."

Jenna's face was a picture of astonishment and speculation as she reached out.

"Oh, no you don't." Avon hoisted the bottle to his chest. "We think before we act. Just this once." He staggered off under the weight of a burly if miniscule Blake.

"Look out!" Jenna ran after him. "You might break it!"

"I doubt that very much. Whatever this is made of, it isn't glass. It wouldn't hold something as dense as Blake." Avon gave Jenna one of his rare and dazzling genuine smiles as they entered the flight deck. "I meant that purely in the physical sense, of course." He went carefully down the stairs and over to his work table, and set the bottle down.

Blake could be dimly seen jumping up and down inside the bottle and squeaking unintelligibly.

"Poor little thing," said Vila, tapping the bottle gently. "D'you suppose he's hungry? I could poke a lettuce leaf in there."

"Don't you dare!" Jenna put her ear up to the curved glass. "He's trying to tell us something."

"You don't say," said Avon.

"Shush!"

They all held their breath.

"Let me out" squeaked Blake.

Avon sighed. "As original as ever."

"What've you got there?" asked Gan, getting up to see.

"Potted rebel," said Avon.

"He's a genie!" said Vila. "We get three wishes!"

"A genie!" Cally looked shocked. "He must have stumped one."

"Oh, he did," drawled Avon. "With galactic peace, apparently." He explained rather more succinctly than Vila had down there on the base.

Cally shook her head. "My people have had dealings with that race. In fact, I believe the god Thaarn was one. The thing to remember with genies is that being bottled is a punishment. You were probably dealing with an imprisoned criminal."

"I _thought_ he seemed a nice fellow," said Vila.

"So wishes need to be very carefully worded. They try to conserve their energy and take the easiest option."

"Only sensible, that is. Knew I liked him."

"I am just saying," Cally said patiently, "that freeing Blake by asking for things may be dangerous."

"But he's Blake!"

"He's also been given the race's abilities, and perhaps also their mindset."

Vila regarded the bottle suspiciously. "Yeah, some of those old stories didn't turn out that well."

"I'd rather Blake stayed where he was," said Avon. "But I daresay that's unlikely with this crew." He sighed. "We might as well get it over and done with." He placed a hand on the bottle.

"Not so fast!" Gan placed a huge hand beside it, and Jenna put both hers on the other side. Cally looked disapproving, and Vila dithered, torn between avarice and fear.

"Well, now." Avon looked at Gan and Jenna in turn. "There are only three wishes to be shared out. That makes one each."

"On the count of three, then," said Jenna. "One, two, _three_."

They all slid their hands over the plump curve of the bottle, then stepped back, surprised despite themselves, as Blake emerged. He expanded, as if filling with air, to hover over them, his arms folded over his chest.

"Your legs!" gasped Jenna. "What happened to them?"

"He's still in there, legs and all. That's just a psychic projection," said Vila knowledgeably.

Jenna looked relieved. "I'm not sure pink suits you, Blake."

"My thought too," said Avon. "You'd think he could do something about it, wouldn't you?"

"All right, you get three wishes," said Blake, sounding resigned. "You know the drill. Who's first?"

"That would be me." Avon thought hard. He would have to be very careful and very specific.

Vila grabbed Avon's sleeve. "Be careful, Avon!"

Avon shook him off. "I intend to."

"What're you going to ask for?"

"Shut up, Vila. I'm thinking." A safe bolt-hole would be nice, but Blake would hardly be pleased with that choice. Would he be able to undermine it somehow? He could end up on a virgin world, or a place so boring he would long to be back here.

"If you think of something good, try to word it so we can all get some."

Wealth seemed an easy option, but he'd also need the opportunity to spend it, and safely too.

"Something that'll last. Nothing ephemeral."

A long life? He could think of many circumstances in which that wouldn't be an attractive proposition.

"Didn't know I knew that word, did you, Avon?"

"Vila! I wish you'd just—" Avon stopped and stared at Vila, appalled. Vila stared back with an identical expression of horror. "Shut up and go away" was what he had been going to say, but now he had a horrible vision of Vila, mouthless, spaced, and unable to scream.

There was a long, silent moment. Then Blake spoke resignedly. "You'll have to finish that sentence, Avon."

"Ahhh." Avon blinked. "I wish for—"

"No. You already mentioned Vila. I'm sorry, but rules are rules."

"That never bothered you before."

"I wasn't a genie before. I have to obey the genie code. You started, Avon, so you'll have to finish."

Avon compressed his lips and looked at the frightened Vila again. "Very well. I wish Vila would take my turn." Damn. It was all he could think of on the spur of the moment.

Everyone let out a sigh of relief, including Blake. "That's easy. One down, two to go."

"What do you mean?" Avon truculently folded his own arms. "If you count that as a wish, then Vila's getting the second one, not the first. That therefore does not constitute taking my turn, so it's not fulfilling my request."

Blake frowned. "But then it'll be four wishes!"

"No, it is simply passing my turn to Vila."

"It's a paradox!" Vila said gleefully, then looked worried. "You're not going to have a breakdown like one of those old computers on a classic vid and blow up, are you?"

"Certainly not," said Blake with dignity. "Very well. Vila takes Avon's turn. In _effect_ the first wish."

Avon smirked, and Vila sat back on the couch and hugged his knees in thought.

His first thought was to go for a palace and a private staff of virgins in red fur, but that was probably more than one wish. Besides, there were so many ways for it to go wrong. The palace might be on an unpleasant planet or in a strict and not at all fun society (it was surprising how many were) or he might be expected to be responsible. Or even a ruler: much too much like hard work. Then there were the virgins. That sanctimonious killjoy Blake could twist that one all sorts of ways. They could be older or bigger than him, or even both—he had a sudden image of an army of maiden aunts all nagging him and telling him to eat his vegetables. He'd have to specify attractive and young. Oh yes, and female. He was transfixed by a sudden vision of squalling babies, all needing to be changed. Blimey, he'd need to work an age range in there. Oh, and add a stipulation that they _liked_ him. He would have to word this very, very carefully.

"Come on, Vila," Blake said impatiently.

Vila sunk his head in his hands. "Wish I had a drink," he muttered.

"Vila!" almost everyone said in disgust.

"Eh?" Vila sat up and stared at the glass of green liquid that had just appeared in his hand. "Oh. Look, can I take that back and try again?"

Blake glared and expanded menacingly. "No."

"Oh well, could be worse." Vila lifted the glass and paused. "Hey!" he said indignantly. "It's got lip prints on it!"

"Everything's got to come from somewhere, Vila," said Blake. "Translation's a lot easier than creation."

Vila thought about this and felt a bit ill, realising that he'd almost asked for a set of kidnapped slaves. He turned the glass to the unmarked side and knocked the contents back.

* * *

  
"It's not a question of species," Dr Justin Tritt said loftily, making an expensive gesture, "but intelligence, and—" he stopped and stared at his empty hand. "All right." He looked at his fellow white-coated scientists around the staff canteen table. "Which one of you bastards took my drink? It isn't funny."

* * *

  
"Gan?" Blake raised his eyebrows.

"Do you have to do that?" Gan asked with interest. "Keep your arms folded like that?"

"Yes." Blake looked annoyed. "It's part of the deal. What's your wish."

"Careful, Gan," said Vila. "Don't ask for anyone dead to come back. Basic mistake, that."

"Good point." Gan nodded gravely. "I've heard those stories too." He smiled at Blake. "I've thought about this and I'd like a month's worth of roast dinners."

Vila blinked. "All at once?"

"Done," said Blake.

They all stared at a tottering pile of plates, all filled with steaming hot food. Gan leaped up to steady it. "They can go in stasis storage," he told Vila. "And you can have some of the roast spuds if you like. I know you enjoy those."

"You did all right there," said Vila. "They don't look as if anyone started to eat them yet."

* * *

  
Space Captain Del Tarrant was looking forward to dinner. It was always roast on Sundays. "An extra big serving for me" he said to the rating behind the counter. "I'm a growing lad."

"Roast's off, sir."

"What do you mean, off?" Tarrant pushed his lower lip out. "It's always roast on Sunday. I was looking forward to it."

"Not much I can do if someone nicks off with thirty meals, is it sir? It's cabbage soup or nothing."

"I think I'll have the nothing."

* * *

  
Jenna stood, hand on her hips and her foot impatiently tapping. Blake swivelled to face her on his tenuous wispy pink connection to the bottle.

"The last wish is Jenna's."

"And about time." Jenna looked around at the others scornfully. "As no one else has used any common sense, I shall have to. My wish is to have our Blake back the way he was before."

There was a flash and Blake stood before them, dressed once again in his big-sleeved brown shirt and green jacket over normal trousers. "Thank you, Jenna," he said. "I'm glad someone thought of it."

"I'm not," said Avon. "We're back where we were, due to a lamentable paucity of imagination."

"Actually," said Vila, remembering all the ways he'd seen his wish going wrong, "that wasn't it."

Avon looked at him, remembering his own near-wish. "Yes, I know. I was talking about Jenna."

Jenna leaned over Avon from behind the couch. "And you're wrong there too," she purred. "Don't think I didn't think about it, but I'm old-fashioned. I'd like to be chosen on my own merits."

"I quite agree. However a Blake with powers might have been useful."

"Oh, I dunno," said Vila, beside him. "I think he's a lot safer this way. Genies can be a bit unpredictable."

"So can Blake." Avon thought about it. "But yes, I suppose we came out of this quite well, all things considered."

Survival always counted for a lot.

The end


End file.
